


Artist's Greatest Achievement

by resonatingkitty



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Biker AU, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Slow Burn, mention of drug trafficking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-06-06 23:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15205826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonatingkitty/pseuds/resonatingkitty
Summary: Jeff Hardy is an artist trying to find that something that's been missing from his life. His search brings him to a town in Texas where he meets and eventually starts to fall in love with the badass leader of a biker gang, a man that goes by the name Taker. But is what he finds here what he's been looking for?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. 
> 
> I am back again with a multi chapter fic that I will _hopefully_ finish. I lost my motivation for a while, didn't know how or even want to write anything. I still don't want to write anything to do with Dean or Bray or anything like that but strangely I've been thirsting for a Jeff/Taker fic. So I decided to write one. 
> 
> I would like to point out that both Jeff and Taker characters are centered roughly around what their 2001 characters were in the WWE. Jeff's looks are similar to [this](https://twitter.com/WrestleFPW/status/1013427917076848640) and so are Taker's. I came up with this after watching the ladder match between the two.

“L-Look…..I don’t want any trouble.” 

Jeffrey Nero Hardy and the two bags that held all his belongings backed away as the three bikers advanced on him. 

They had spotted him from across the street, from just outside the bar and started hurling snide comments and harassing words at him. He did his best to ignore them and continued walking in the direction the bus driver had indicated, he had asked before he’d gotten off at the bus stop, he should go to reach the local motel. He had hoped he could just skirt around the bikers but when they saw that their words had no effect or were being ignored, they crossed the deserted street and blocked his path. 

They were drunk, the heavy scent of alcohol burned Jeff’s nose when they drew nearer and he nearly gagged. He clutched his bags - one containing his clothes and the other his art supplies - tighter to his body as they spread out around him until one stood on his left, behind him, and directly in front of him. The wall of a brick building was on his right. He was boxed in. 

“Don’t want any trouble huh?” The biker in front of him slurred, eyes flashing as cruelly as the smirk on his face, “Unfortunately for you, boy, _we_ happen to be lookin’ to cause trouble.” 

“Yeah,” the biker on Jeff’s left laughed. His eyes caught sight of the bags and he sneered “Whatcha lugging around there? Anything valuable?” 

“N-Nothing.” Jeff’s eyes darted around, looking for any possible escape route but finding none. He was trapped. . “P-Please…. I just got into town. I’m just looking for the motel.” 

“Aw,” the biker behind him cooed, “you hear that boys? The pretty boy here’s an outsider.” The others chuckled. 

“Tell you what” The first biker said with a grin that was nothing short of malicious, “You hand over those bags you’re carryin’ and we’ll just let you on your merry way. Call it a luxury tax for us lettin’ you through.” 

“No!” Jeff practically yelled, clutching the straps to his bags so tight his knuckles turned white. There was no way he was giving up his belongings, not to these goons. He glowered at them, snarling, “Go to hell!” 

A blow to his stomach knocks the air from his lungs. He doubles over with a hoarse cry, legs threatening to give way. A hand cruelly curling in his blond hair is the only thing that keeps him standing and the same hand jerks him back upright. His back digs into the rough bricks as he is shoved back against the wall. 

“Boy, you just made the biggest fuckin’ mistake of your life,” The first biker growled, drawing his fist back. 

Pain exploded across Jeff’s face and dark spots danced across his vision as his head turns with the force of the punch that lands on his cheek. He groans, hands going to his face. His legs buckle and he falls to his knees. Laughter booms above him. 

Jeff forces himself to look up, glowering weakly through the hair now covering his eyes. He can taste the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Knows he’s bleeding from probably a split lip. Feels like it. His vision is blurry with tears of pain but he blinks them away rapidly and focuses on the three bikers that are leering down at him. Bastards were enjoying it. 

Movement in the distance, over across the road at the biker bar catches Jeff’s eyes. His gaze flicks to it making it out right as a hand is twisting in his hair again and he’s being drug away from the wall and thrown onto the sidewalk. 

Two figures were crossing the street, heading straight towards them. 

The three bikers don’t notice the approaching figures, too focused on the prey they had trapped. They laugh, cruel and sadistic. One reaches down, easily wrestling the bag away and flings it somewhere. Jeff tries to fight to keep it but he loses his grip when a kick lands harshly against his side, tearing a cry of pain from his lips. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes as he curls instinctively, trying to protect is injured side from further harm. His arms fly up to protect his face from blows that do not come. 

Heavy boots thud on the pavement and the bikers’ laughter cuts off abruptly. A tense silence descends momentarily before a loud thwack sounds, followed by a thud. 

Jeff lowers his arms and blinks away the tears from his vision. His eyes widen at the sight before him. The biker that punched him in the face is now lying on the ground, writhing and holding the side of his own face. The other two bikers are standing to the side, warily eyeing the two larger men that stood towering over the downed one. 

The two men that had come to his rescue were larger than the three that had attacked him. They were bikers too, if the vests they wore with the words respectively Big Red and Deadman stitched in white down the fronts were any indication to go by. 

The man with vest that had the word Big Red also wore a red bandana across the lower portion of his face completely obscuring his mouth and nose from view. His eyes were obscured by the long greasy black hair that hung in his face. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the other man, Deadman. 

Deadman had his fist still balled and half raised. He wore all black save for the word on his vest and the dark red bandana tied around the top of his head. He had a chiseled appearance, rough and tough with an air of don’t-fuck-with-me about him. His face was twisted in a half snarl, pissed off look and his hazel eyes were blazing as he glared down at the biker that was still writhing on the ground. That gaze snapped from the one on the ground to the two standing to the side when they shifted and he growled, a sound that sent a shiver down Jeff’s spine. It wasn’t one of fear though, which came as a surprise. The two remaining bikers shivered as well, and Jeff could tell it was all fear. 

“You two,” Deadman ordered, locking that piercing stare on the two bikers, who both looked absolutely terrified, “get your asses back to the bar and take this,” he used the toe of his boot to nudge the man on the ground none too gently, “with you.” 

The two bikers hurriedly gripped their downed companion and lugged him to his feet. He groaned and slumped between the two of them as they half drug, half helped him limp across the road. A harsh stare followed them the whole way until they disappeared into the bar. 

With the danger of a being beaten to a bloody pulp no longer in his near future, Jeff pushed himself shakingly to his feet, gritting his teeth as his body complained the action. He ignored the two men in favor of limping over to where his art bag had been ripped from him and threw. The bag had somehow come opened and his brushes and canvases were split over the sidewalk. Some of them had been destroyed under heavy boots. One of the bikers must’ve stomped on them. 

At the sight of broken brushes and ruined artwork, Jeff’s shoulders slumped. He gingerly knelt down and with shaking fingers, started to return the items to the bag. He was so lost in his sorrow that he doesn’t see Deadman shoot a look to Big Red. Doesn’t notice the other man nodding back and retreating back across the street to the bar. He doesn’t realize that the remaining biker had moved to stand beside him, or had knelt down and picked up a brush. 

“Here,” Jeff has to blink back tears - anger that his work was destroyed and sadness because why? What had been the point other than for a laugh? He stares dully at the large hand that held out one of his touch up brushes. Hesitates half a second before he reaches up to gently retrieve it. 

“Thanks.” The pain is raw in his voice, Jeff knows it but he doesn’t care. His face hurt. His side hurt. His fucking heart hurt. He’d left North Carolina with all his possessions in hopes of finding something he felt had been missing from his life. And what did he find? Nothing but misery. 

“Where you headed?” The question is asked while Jeff is zipping up his art back. The strap is broken. He cradles it to his chest, as he pushes himself to his feet. The bag with his clothes and money luckily hadn’t got taken. It’s a small,hollow victory. 

“Motel,” he mumbles out, refusing to look that the man that had been his savior. He starts walking down the sidewalk, fully intent on leaving the man and what had happened well behind him. The man had other ideas, however, and Jeff heard the stud of those boots as they fell into step behind him. 

They walk in silence for a while. Until the biker bar is a couple of streets behind them and well out of view. The biker guy hadn’t said a word the entire time but he was still following and Jeff was growing more exasperated by the minute. He stops suddenly and whirls around, green eyes finding the biker a few steps behind him and mouth open to tell the guy to leave him alone but the words get stuck in his throat. The guy had his hands stuffed in the black hoodie he wore under his vest and he seemed to be scanning the streets around them. He seemed to sense that Jeff had stopped and stops a step before he would have ran into Jeff. That hazel gaze slides to Jeff, and the guy tilts his head to the side, clearly waiting for Jeff to speak. 

“Why are you following me?” Jeff detours and watches a look of uncertainty briefly flash through those hazel eyes, like the guy suddenly realizes he’d been following Jeff, but it’s gone in a blink of an eye and the guy shrugs instead. 

“Figured I’d make sure you got where you were going,” he offers, eyes flicking quickly to what Jeff’s sure is a growing bruise on his face, jaw clenching slightly “in one piece. The motel’s not much farther up this street.” 

Jeff stared at the man standing before him. He was so confused. So many questions swirled in his head but he settled on one, the most obvious and possibly the most important at the time. “Why do you care if I make it to the motel in one piece?” 

The guy huffs out a laugh, it’s dry and gravelly like the guy didn’t laugh much, and shrugs his shoulders. “That’s the million dollar question isn’t it?” He shoots back, shaking his head, “See where you’re standing? Where you’ve been standing since you got off that bus that dropped you off here?” He pauses until Jeff nods before continuing, “Well it’s all my yard. And I’m,” he points to his chest with his thumb, “the big dog that runs the yard. Nothing happens around here without my say so and that shit that happened back there, happened without my say so.” 

“So you feel…. responsible?” Jeff guessed a little awkwardly, starting to walk again. He was more than ready to be to the motel and put this weird evening behind him. 

“Yeah,” the guy says, quietly, from behind him, “Shoulda kept a better eye on their asses. They got a little too wasted. They’ll know better after tonight.” 

There is a menacing undertone behind those last words that Jeff doesn’t want to dwell on long. Those guys deserved whatever was in store for them. Serves them right to picking a fight where there wasn’t one and breaking his brushes and ruining his paintings. 

Silence descends upon the two as they continue on but it’s a comfortable silence. It follows them until the motel comes into view, marked by the blinking sign out by the road. Jeff perks up at the sight and can’t help the small sigh of relief. He turns to the guy, still following him, and grins. The guy blinks, momentarily looking stunned, before he gives a smirk in reply. 

Jeff is ready to sprint across the parking lot to the office so he could get a room but before he could, a hand closes around his arm. The grip isn’t hard enough to hurt but it’s firm and immediately attention grabbing. Jeff turns back and the guy lets go. He stares, blinking and waits as the guy straightens and shoves the hand back in his hoodie. He can’t help but notice the much larger man looks a bit sheepish. 

“Look, I don’t know how long you plan to hang around here,” the guys starts, suddenly looking anywhere but at Jeff, “but you ever run into anything like you did back there just drop the name, Taker, and you won’t have any more trouble.” 

“Taker?” Jeff repeats, somehow liking how the name so naturally rolls off his tongue. 

The guy, Taker, nods. His gaze slides back to Jeff, briefly before he ducks his head and turns on his heel, heading back toward the direction of the bar. He throws a hand up and calls over his shoulder, “Be seeing ya. Try to stay out of three on one fights.” 

Jeff stares at the retreating back. The laughing devil head on the back of the vest staring back at him as he contemplates what the hell just happened. Shaking his head, he crosses the parking lot to the motel. No time to worry about it. He needed a room. Needed to clean up and needed to take stock on what he had left. He couldn’t do his art if he didn’t have any supplies.


	2. Chapter 2

A loud banging on the motel room door startles Jeff to awakeness. His eyes fly open and he groans quietly to himself. The banging stops just long enough for him to think he might just be hearing things when it starts up again. Insistent and oh so loud to his sleep deprived brain. He’d stayed up until early morning going through his art supplies. There hadn’t been as much ruined as he originally thought once he’d sat down and went through it. He needed to replace a couple brushes and repaint about three of his works but that was okay, he didn’t mind all that much. He’d just make them better when he redid them and he looked to do so as soon as he replaced his brushes. 

More loud banging on his door finally spurs him to throw the covers off his body and begrudgingly get up to answer it. Without thinking, he flings open the door and instantly regrets it. The three bikers that jumped him the night before stood on the other side. His breath catches in his throat and he scrambles to slam the door shut but a hand comes up before he can follow through. 

He backs away, panic rising. How did they find him? His mind supplied him the image of the retreating back of Taker, of the devil on the back of the vest staring, laughing right at him. The guy had said that this was his territory and that nothing happened without his okay. Where these guys here now, under his approval, to finish what they started? It takes him a moment, when he’s backed halfway across the motel room, to notice that the guys hadn’t moved and were still standing at the door. The one who’d been doing the knocking even had his hands raised, palms facing outward, in the universal “I mean you no harm” sign. 

“What do you want?” Jeff musters up the words, passes them shakily through trembling lips. The split that he’d gotten thanks to one of these guys a stinging reminder as it is pulled with the motion. 

“Whoa, relax, we ain’t here to hurt you.” The guy promises, hands still up, “Taker made it very clear what would happen if we did.” 

At the mention of that name, Jeff felt himself relax slightly. So the guy hadn’t sent them to finish what they started at least. The panic that had started to build instantly dissipated. Okay so they weren’t here to beat him to a bloody pulp. Still what were they here for? He stayed where he was, but lifted his head and leveled his gaze at them, repeating his previous question more firmly, “What do you want?” 

The guy reached into his vest and Jeff tensed instinctively. A brown envelope was produced and held out toward him. He blinks, gaze flickering from the goon to the envelope and back. He doesn’t move from his spot. He didn’t trust going near these men. Just because this Taker told them not do hurt him, how did he know they would listen. Something in him doubted they would cross the man, but he was still cautious. They could easily make him disappear and just say that he’d been gone when they checked the motel and Taker would be none the wiser. 

“This is for the damages to your stuff,” the biker offered, waving the envelope. When Jeff doesn’t move to take it, the guy takes a step into the room. His jaw is clenched and his next words have a slight edge to them, “Look we’re sorry we bothered you man. Just…. Just accept this and forgive us. Otherwise we’re going to be in deep shit here.” 

“Easy Bradshaw,” one of the others hissed, gripping the guy’s shoulder to keep him from going further into the room. 

“Just leave it on the floor and get out of here,” Jeff muttered, “You can tell Taker you’re forgiven or whatever. Just leave me alone.” 

The envelope is slowly lowered to the floor and the three bikers disappear from the doorway. Jeff waits until the sound of three bike engines start up and fade in the distance before he moves to pick up the envelope. He holds it in his hand, contemplating what could be inside. He cautiously opens the flap and looks inside, gasping when he sees the amount of hundred dollar bills. 

He closes the door and quickly dumps the contents out onto the bed. He counts and recounts the money for good measure. To make sure he wasn’t officially losing it. He wasn’t and in the end, he held three thousand dollars in his hands. His eyes catch sight of a white folded up piece of paper on the sheets beside the envelope that must’ve fell onto the bed along with the money and he reaches for it. Unfolds it. It’s a note, written is messy handwriting. It read:

>   
>  Wasn’t sure how much to give you to replace that art stuff of yours. Don’t know shit about art. Hope this is enough. If not, tell Bradshaw and I’ll make sure you get the amount you need.
> 
> -Taker

Jeff stared at the note. He rereads it. Then he looks at the money. Three grand was more than enough. Hell it was more than what he even needed. The brushes that he used were the cheaper ones. He believed that it didn’t take fancy, expensive tools to make beautiful art. His canvases were also not at that expensive, couple hundred dollars for a set of them.

Well, he thought with a huff, at least he had the money to replace what he lost. He didn’t have to worry about getting a temporary job to save up. 

That was a lot of money though. His consciousness oh so helpfully piped up to point out. A lot of money that came from a group of bikers. Back in North Carolina, how many times had there been news on about bikers, sometimes whole gangs, being busted with narcotics and drug trafficking? Lots. This money was more than most likely drug money. He was under no illusion that these guys were upstanding citizens. The air of danger that hung around Taker was enough to discredit any claim of good citizenship. 

“What an impasse,” He mumbles to himself, biting the inside of his cheek. There was no way he would be able to keep the money. He sighs, eyeing the money. Decision made. He reaches out, starts to return the money to the envelope. Before he seals it, he flips the note over and digs in his bag for a pen. He draws a quick little doodle, signing it with his initials J.N.H. before he slips it in with the money. 

Leaving the envelope sitting on the bed, Jeff digs through his clothes bag for a fresh change of clothing before heading off to the bathroom for a shower. He pauses when he passes the small mirror over the sink. There is a large purplish black bruise coloring the right side of his face. He stands there, looking at him looking back at himself, before he hangs his head. No matter how badly he wanted to, he wouldn’t keep the money. He’d forgiven those guys, held no ill will toward them. He didn’t need the charity of the money. He never asked for it. He would just have to see about getting a job so he could save up. He would take the envelope back to the bar, which he was positive was the popular hang out spot, given the amount of bikes he’d spotted parked there the night before. It was the middle of the day so he didn’t think he’d have to worry about getting into trouble and if he did, at least he knew the name to drop. 

\--

Taker heaves out a grateful sigh when the bar finally comes into view. He swiftly maneuvers into the parking lot, cutting the engine to his Harley. He had spent all damn day in meeting with that damn McMahon-Helmsley faction, again. Trying to orchestrate some semblance of good faith between their two clubs. With little success. It seemed that for every inch he managed to get toward that neutral ground, Vince would drag them back two. And Taker knew the senile old fucker was doing it on purpose. Business would be so much better for both of them if they decided to get along and Taker knew Vince knew that. The man was business savvy, had been in the business long enough that he knew a profit when he saw one. He was just pulling Taker’s balls, pushing him to the very edge and leaving him there, wanting to explode but knowing that he couldn’t. 

If it were a decade ago, Taker wouldn’t have bothered trying to negotiate. He would have just marched in and expanded his yard. Doing so now would put him under the authorities’ radar and that’s something he couldn’t afford if he wanted good business. Waging a territory war with another club surely would get their attention and he couldn't have that. So his hands were tied and he’d have to endure this little game until Vince got tired of playing. 

The negotiation talks hadn’t been the only thing on his mind all day either. He’d often caught himself thinking about blond hair and green eyes complete with a sad kicked puppy look and he’d have to squash down the anger that kindled anew. He didn’t know what it had been about the kid that drew him in. But when he’d stepped out that bar and saw Bradshaw punch the kid in the face, he instantly felt the need to protect. To beat the absolute shit out of Bradshaw and the others. To stake a claim on that blond so no one would dare lay a hand on him again. The overwhelming urge had jarred him to the fucking bone and still had him on edge. He’d never felt that. Ever. Even Sara hadn’t sparked such protective instincts and she had been his old lady for years before she had enough of his shit and left. 

Shaking his head, he was not about to think about this right now, he dismounted his bike and headed for the bar. He needed a drink and to check with Kane to make sure Bradshaw and those other three delivered that envelope to the kid. They had better, if not there would be hell to pay. 

As soon as he stepped through the doors of the bar, the tension that had been slowly building up between his shoulder blades started to ebb away. The dull ache that was throbbing in the base of his skull that came from listening to Vince’s bullshit started to lessen. He stood just inside the door for a few moments, let his eyes rake over the place. He immediately spots Kane, seated at the bar, with Paul, the bartender. Paul was chatting away and Kane was nodding along. Bradshaw and the other two were not present. Not that Taker expected them to be. He crossed the threshold, stepped up to the bar. 

Paul is the first to notice him. “Ah yes,” his voice was high pitched and slightly squeaky, a result of trauma to his vocal cords suffered during his younger days, “the Undertaker returns. Hopefully with good news hmm?” 

Taker glowered at him, sinking down on the stool beside Kane. It held no heat and Paul knew it. Paul Bearer was one of two people on the planet that could say pretty much whatever he wanted to Taker without worrying about a fist to his face. Paul had been there for Taker when he was in a bad place and in return held Taker’s respect. Kane was the other but that was because he was family. 

“Same news as always. Vince isn’t budging,” Taker grumbles out, accepting the long neck bottle that is handed to him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a long drink. Beside him, Kane rumbles out a noise that sounded like a growl and Taker sighs. “I know big guy, I don’t like it either but it’s what has to happen.” 

“Vince will eventually agree,” Paul interjects. The key word being eventually. Taker had no doubt that Vince would drag this out for years just to be the major pain in the ass that he was. 

“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” Taker brings the bottle back to his lips as he turns leaning back against the bar. He surveys the bars occupants. There were a few of the gang gathered around, some playing pool, other sucking faces with the girls. There was still no sign of Bradshaw and he turned his head to Kane, his second in command. 

“Did Bradshaw and the others take that envelope to the kid like I told them?” He asked. There was a part - the dark and sadistic part that was always up for a fight - of him that halfway hoped Bradshaw had tried him. The guy had balls, loved to push his luck. One of these days he was going to push it too far and Taker seriously hoped that today would be that day. 

But his hopes were dashed when Kane nodded once. He suppressed a sigh of disappointment and turned back around. So much for that. His fingers tapped against the wooden countertop as he finished off the beer and set the empty bottle back down. He hangs his head, feeling the tension drain all the way from his shoulders. 

“Yo, Taker,” at the sound of the deep voice from behind him, Taker lifts his head and looks over his shoulder. Viscera, bar bouncer and enforcer to the club, stood there with something in his hand. Taker’s eyes land on it and instantly narrow. It was the envelope that he’d given Bradshaw that morning. 

“What the hell?” he growled, turning around fully. Kane following his motion, head tilting slightly. 

“Blond headed kid dropped it off today. Dropped your name. Asked me to give it back to you.” Vis explained, handing the envelope over. 

“Thanks man,” Taker nods dismissively, his focus now on the envelope he held in his hand. 

He turned around, tearing open the top and peered inside. The money he’d put in there this morning was still there as well as the now unfolded note. He reached inside, seizing the white unfolded paper between his fingers and pulled it out. On one side was the note he’d written that morning and on the other was a drawing of what he assumed was the kid. His eyes took in the black and white image. The mini kid looked sorrowful as he held the money in his hand and was handing it back to what Taker assumed was supposed to be him. The chibi likeness to himself would have been cute if that word was in his vocabulary. Taker and cute didn’t belong together. Ever. 

Beside him, Kane snorted and Taker realized that his little brother had glanced at the drawing. He immediately pulled the piece of paper to the side, away from his brother’s line of sight, and glared, “Mind your own damn business would you.” 

Kane stared at him for a few minutes before shaking his head and huffing out what sounded like a laugh. Before Taker could ask his little brother what the hell was so funny, Kane reached over to pat him on the shoulder before getting up and wandering off toward the back. Taker stared after his brother angrily because what the hell was that about but his gaze turned to Paul, who’d been standing there silently. There was a look on Paul’s face, something between amusement and wonder, and it pissed Taker off. He glared back at the man. 

“What the fuck is up with the two of you?” he growled, stuffing the note angrily back in the envelope and pushing himself from the stool. He stomped from the bar and headed for his bike, missing the little smile that appeared on Paul’s lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick edit, before you read this chapter, you might want to reread the previous two. 
> 
> I didn't change the story any but I did go back and update the chapters, changed a few minor things that I didn't like upon looking back while I worked on this chapter.

The cool night air whipping in his face did nothing to extinguish the hot flames of anger that were burning within him. Taker snarls, a vicious sound that gets drowned out by the roaring sound of his Harley, as he roughly shifts the gears to push the bike faster down the empty highway. 

He was pissed. The kind of pissed that had been building up for the last two days. Burning the already short fuse of his temper to the very end and leaving him teetering on the edge of exploding. 

One of the shipments had been hit by the police. Not all that uncommon for police to ruin a shipment or two. They never could trace it back to Taker’s club, Taker made sure of that. It was irritating to lose out on the money. This shipment bust however was suspiciously different from all the others. It seemed as though the cops knew exactly where and when it was coming through, which meant that they’d gotten tipped off. Taker knew it had been someone in the McMahon-Helmsley faction that did it but he had no proof. It still pissed him off and left him dealing with trying to clean up the loss as well as get his buyers the shit they paid for. Luckily none of the club or its affiliates were picked up with the shipment. That would’ve been a whole other headache. 

On top of that, Taker couldn’t get the damn blond headed kid out his head. He had kept the envelope with the money and the drawing, it was tucked away in his saddlebags. It bothered him more that he wanted it to that the kid refused his help. He just couldn't pinpoint exactly why it bothered him so much. He knew nothing about about the kid. Hell, he realized, he didn’t even know his name. That realization somehow pissed him off more, not at the kid, but at himself for not asking. 

The whole thing was a mess. He was a fucking mess, not that he let it show, but he needed to get himself sorted out. To start, he had to deal with soothing the anger that burned within him before he lost it. 

Luckily he knew just the place to go. 

He rolled up to JeriShow Junkyard some time later. By day it operated as any other junkyard but at night it turned into a war zone. Situated in “neutral” territory - independent of any club or gang - it was the only place for miles around that members of different clubs or gangs could gather, peacefully. Club or gang rivalries were left at the gates and if anyone didn’t follow those rules, they were placed on _The List_ and never allowed back. The Junkyard held fight night several times a week, all were welcomed and it was an understanding that whatever happened in the Junkyard stayed in the Junkyard. 

From the amount of vehicles scattered along the outside of the fence, seemed like tonight was one of the slacker nights. Taker rolled his shoulders as he headed for the gates. He hadn’t even gotten halfway to where the action was taking place when Jericho, one half of the owners and the one who orchestrated the fights, appeared out of nowhere. The look on his face must’ve said it all because Jericho took one look at him before holding up the small writing pad he kept all the fights logged on and said, “I can get you in. Don’t have anyone else lined up though so it’ll have to be an open challenge. That alright with you?” 

Taker nodded. That was more than fine with him. He followed Jericho down the well worn dirt path between two tall rows of stacked smashed up car frames. The path, illuminated by a strand of white Christmas lights zigzagged just above head height, eventually opened up to a large open area. Various spot lights and lamps lit up the area. Taker stood at the mouth of the path, eyes scanning the area before falling onto the “ring”. The ring was nothing more than a piece of ground that had metal guard rail barricades in a rough circular shape around it. A row of makeshift bleachers was set up in a semicircle around it on its opposite side. A makeshift bar and speaker system had been set up directly to the right of the path. 

Inside the ring there was a fight that was close to finishing up. Taker recognizes one of the fighters, man by the name of Booker T. He ran a small gang on the other side of town, mostly small stuff and he sold local. Some of Taker’s club still do business with him. 

Booker was winning, bringing down a beant up piece of aluminum that had once been a trash can lid over and over again on his opponent, some punk that Taker did not know. Big Show stood a foot or so away from the chaos, wearing the striped referee shirt. Show was a very big man, seven foot and nearing four hundred pounds. He was the other owner of the Junkyard and while Jericho orchestrated matches, he refed them. Made sure that no one went a little too far out there. 

The big man was already stepping forward to pull Booker from the punk, who’d very obviously given up in the fight. Booker raised his hands in victory as the spectators cheered. 

“Congratulation to you, King Booka!” Jericho’s voice cracked through the speakers, grinning cheekily and giving a thumbs up in Booker’s direction. Show all the while was helping the defeated punk limp out of the ring. “Now this was originally going to be the last fight of the night but,” He raised his hands, grinning widely as all eyes landed on him, “I have a special treat for you all tonight! Allow me to introduce a man colder than the grave itself! Ladies and gentlemen, The Undertaker!” 

Taker walked to the ring, giving a nod to Show once he stood within the circle. He slipped out of his vest, hanging the material over one of the metal barriers, and stood waiting for Jericho to continue. 

“Is there anyone in the audience that has balls enough to try their luck in the ring with the Deadman him-fucking-self?” Jericho asked, and while there were several glances from the audience only one guy stepped forward. He was a skinny, dark headed punk that came from a group of what looked to be his friends. They were all urging him on. Poor fucking kid didn’t know what he was about to get himself into. Taker felt the sadistic grin spreading on his face as he readied himself and brought his hands up. 

Taker left the Junkyard feeling a hell of a lot better. He felt a type of relaxed and satisfied that only a good fight or a good fuck could make him feel. 

The poor punk he beat down wouldn’t be willing to step into the ring any time soon. Probably wouldn’t even want to move for at least a few weeks. 

He drove now, letting the cool midnight Texas air wash over him. He had no destination in mind, didn’t feel like going home nor did he feel like going to the bar. He wasn’t even paying attention to his surroundings as he drove and was surprised when he pulled into the parking lot of the motel. 

“Shit” Taker scrubbed a hand down his face. He had not meant to come here. But the kid had been on his mind all day. He sighed, letting his eyes glance to the room the kid was staying in. There was a flicker of light from the tv in the window signaling that the kid was still up. Deciding, ‘fuck it’, Taker kicked down the kickstand and pulled the key from the ignition as he dismounted. 

The gravel crunched under his boots as he crossed the short distance to the plain, poorly painted door. He had his hand raised, ready to knock when he paused, hesitating. His brows furrowed. Him hesitating? What the fucking hell? Shaking his head, he finally brought his hand against the wood, three short, hard knocks. He then stepped back, shoving his hands in the pocket of his jeans and leaned back against one of posts that held up the inclined roof, waiting. 

He allowed his gaze to wander. Taking inventory of the area. The motel was a relatively safe area, no one hung around it much. Old man that ran it made it very clear that troublemakers were not welcomed. And if that didn’t work, the double barrel he kept under his desk would come out. So he didn’t have to worry about anything happening- 

“Who is it?” 

That train of thought luckily got stopped when the sound of a muffled voice interrupted it, cutting it off. All as well, Taker didn’t need to start getting possessive over someone he did not know. He didn’t even turn his head back toward the still close door when he answered, “Taker.” 

It took a few more moments, as if the kid was hesitating in opening the door to him, and Taker didn’t linger on how much he didn’t like that. Tried to push it down. He eventually heard the telltale click of the lock clicking moments before the door creaked on it’s hinges as it is pulled open. He finally turned his gaze back, was greeted with the sight of the kid through the slightly opened door. He noticed, with a touch of satisfaction, that the kid hadn’t undid the security chain. Took the time to give the kid a once over, he was wearing a loose fitting tank top and shorts, no shoes or socks. Ignoring the part of him that purred out that the kid looked very edible, Taker settled his gaze on the kid’s face. The bruise on his face was healing nicely and soon would be gone. Anger still bubbled up at the sight of what Bradshaw did and Taker had to fight the need to go find the loud mouthed Texan and make him pay twice over for causing it. 

“Um…… hi?” Jeff’s hesitant voice snapped him from his thoughts. 

“Hey.” He responded, automatically, tilting his head up. He straightened to his full height, not missing the way those emerald green eyes widened just slightly. He fought not to smirk and if he flexed slightly then sue him, not like he would admit it to anyone ever. Not even under torture. 

“Can I help you with something?” The kid asked, curiosity dripping from his tone. Taker realized he was probably wondering why he was here knocking on his door past midnight. 

Luckily, Taker did have something he wanted help with. A little something that had been sitting in his saddlebags for a few days and was now tucked away in his back pocket. “As a matter of fact, you can,” Taker said and from the surprised look that immediately passed over the kid’s face, that was not what the blond had been expecting. He relished in the small victory before he nodded his head toward the door, “We can discuss it inside if you want to invite me in.” 

God how he hoped the kid would, watched with bated breath as he pondered it before giving a nod, a short jerk of his head. “Uh… sure. Give me just a second to undo the chain,” Taker waited until the door closed to release the breath in a quick exhale before he stepped forward when the door reopened, wider and the kid was sweeping his hand in invitation and stepping aside. 

He strolls in, quickly taking in the room. It was plain, nothing out of the ordinary. He did take note of the closed sketch pad thrown on the bed but did not linger. The door clicked shut behind him and he turned to find the kid standing in front of it, back pressed lightly against the wood. He was being watched, gauged and observed and he stood still and let it happen. Found that he didn’t mind if the kid wanted to look at him. 

“I would offer you something to eat, drink, or whatever,” The kid spoke up with a shrug, small smile playing on his lips, “but I can’t really do that.” 

“That’s fine,” Taker replies, tilting his head and trying to ignore the sudden urge to cross the distance between them and trap the kid between his body and the door. Kiss the living daylights out of him and find out if he tasted as sweet as he looked. God he needed to get a hold of himself. The kid already looked like he was expecting to get jumped any minute and not in the sexy way. A part of Taker growled at that thought, as if he’d allow anything to happen to the kid when he was around. “You can relax you know,” He states, reassuringly, and couldn’t fight the smirk when the blond jumps at his words, eyes widening as if he’d been caught doing something. Had he really thought Taker wouldn’t notice? “I don’t bite. Well,” Taker pauses, smirk turning wicked, “not at first.” 

He doesn’t miss the color that comes to the kid’s cheeks, doesn’t miss how he ducks his head to hide it. Interesting. That’s something to file away for later. Taker also doesn’t miss the way the tension bleeds from his shoulders either. 

“Sorry,” the kid apologizes, lifting his head up, running a hand through his hair, “It’s been a rough day.” 

“Oh?” Something clicks in Taker’s mind and it takes him a second to remember. Oh yeah. Foley, owned the grocery store, had been at JeriShows. Was a regular there. Taker overheard him saying something about a blond headed stranger coming in looking for a job. Seemed like the kid had been all over town looking. Taker hadn’t really paid any attention to it then, forgotten it shortly after he heard it. But standing here now, looking at the kid. Oh he’s suddenly very interested. He takes a gamble but he’s sure he’s right when he asks, “So I take it you had no luck out job hunting?” 

“Yeah.” A beat, then, confusion flashed in those green eyes “Wait…. How did you know?” 

“My yard remember?” Taker raised an eyebrow as if the kid had somehow forgotten just who's territory he was in. Even if Taker had only overheard it, the kid didn’t need to know that. Never let it be said that the Undertaker didn’t like to boast when he knew he could get away with it. “Told you,” he continued, “nothing happens around here without my say so. Nothing happens around here without he hearing about it either,” close enough to the truth anyway “And I heard there was a blond headed stranger going around looking for a job. Which,” Taker reached back, not missing the way the kid’s eyes widened when he pulls out the envelope and holds it up. “as you can imagine, puzzled the hell out of me because if you needed money then why did you return this?” He gives the envelope a little wave, keeping his eyes locked onto the blond. 

The kid opens his mouth but it seemed like he couldn’t form words. Green eyes dart from the envelope up to his face and back. Taker raises his eyebrows, looking expectantly back. Making it damn clear he was waiting on an answer. That he would get an answer. The kid started to fidget, pink tongue poking out to lick his lips. 

“I…. couldn’t keep it.” He eventually says. It’s a weak answer and he averts his gaze when he says it. Taker’s eyes narrow, that wasn’t the whole truth now was it. 

“Why not?” He probed, watching intently “Gave it to you.” 

He didn’t miss the flash of guilt that twisted the kid’s face. Even if his eyes were averted, it still showed plain as day. The kid felt guilt over something. But what? Obviously it was something serious enough for him to turn down three grand. It took him a minute before he pieced it together. How many times had he seen on the news where biker clubs had been busted? They usually showed all the drugs and more importantly all the cash that the authorities seized. Did the kid really think he’d given him drug money? Well, he supposed it did make sense. 

Still. He had to ask. To confirm if his suspicions were correct. “You thought it was drug money didn’t you?” 

The slight flinch told him all that he needed to know. Silence descended and the kid visible tensed, seemingly waiting for the explosion he thought was going to follow. 

Taker supposed he should’ve been at least a little angry that the kid turned down his rare moment of generosity. But for the life of him he only found it amusing. He couldn’t stop the rough, gravelly laughter that bubbled out of him, breaking the silence. Once it got started, he couldn’t stop and he ended up bent at the waist, doubled over laughing so hard that tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. His frame shook and he had to wrap an arm around his stomach because it fucking hurt to laugh this much but he couldn’t help it. The kid was something else. Something entirely fucking special that he knew he was probably doomed. 

When he finally got himself under control. When he straighten up and reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes. That’s when he noticed the kid staring at him, wide eyed and completely awestruck. Staring as if he was the most fascinating thing in the world. He took pride in that, grinned at the kid whose name he still didn’t know. He figured he should remedy that. 

“You sure are something else you know that? What’s your name kid?” 

“Jeff,” The kid was blushing again, his own grin on his face as he reached up to run his hand through his hair again. “Jeff Hardy.” 

“Well Jeff Hardy,” Taker said, testing the kid’s name out for himself, liking how it rolled off his tongue and liking how the kid shuddered upon hearing it, “you’ll be pleased to know that this,” he waved the envelope he somehow didn’t drop when he was busting his gut, “is not drug money. It’s all legitly earned cash, straight from my cut of the bar’s profit.” 

“The bar?” Jeff questioned, looking at the envelope but making not move to reach for it. 

“Yep. Own it. Half of it anyway. My little brother, Kane, he owns the other half. Opened it back in the late 90s. Been a hit ever since. Only place in town to get a good drink,” Taker couldn’t help the pride in his voice as he talked about his bar. He started it before he had the club. Back when it was him and Kane. Good times. 

Jeff was biting his lip, considerate look on his face. Three grand was a lot of money. People just didn’t pass it up. Taker expected to leave the envelope behind when he left but once again he was surprised when the kid got this look, a determined sort of finality, on his face and shook his head, “I still can’t take it.” 

Hazel eyes narrowed and before Taker could stop it, his short temper was rearing its ugly head. “And just why the fuck not?” 

“Because I don’t want charity!” The outburst, fired directly at him with no hesitation, stunned his temper completely, stopping it in its tracks. He blinked as Jeff started pacing, too worked up to remain still, continued talking, “I told those guys, the ones who brought the money, that I forgave them for what they did.” That was debatable in Taker’s opinion but. The kid continued, voice getting higher “I-I didn’t asked to be repaid. I didn’t ask for your pity! I don’t want handouts! I want to earn what I get!” 

When Jeff finished, his chest was heaving. Taker watched, silently. Realization of what he’d just done, who he’d just practically yelled at flashed across his face and his eyes, when they turned back to Taker, were fearful. Every bit of the sad puppy look that had been haunting Taker’s mind the last few days. He had to physically tense to keep himself from wrapping the kid in his arms and soothing that fear away. If he did, it would probably scare him even more and drive him away. 

Unfortunately, Jeff read the tensing of his muscles as a sign that things were about to get bad and pushed himself again the door with a thud. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry please.” Apology after apology fell breathlessly from his lips. 

Taker growled to himself. Good going idiot, you scared the kid anyway. He forced himself to relax. 

“Don’t worry about it,” He said, sticking the envelope back into his back pocket, before shoving his hands in his jeans, shrugging. “Need to be put in my place every once in a while.” Which was a fucking lie. If anyone else had dared to mouth off to him like that, they’d have been thrown through the fucking door. Hell a part of him like it when the kid mouthed off at him, relished it. He really needed to keep this kid around. And he had just the idea. 

“But that leaves us at an impasse. Since you won’t except my charity and I still feel responsible for not keeping a better handle on my boys, me and you still got business.” He allows himself to take a few steps forward, bringing him right up close to the kid that was still pressed against the door. “Now it’s obvious to me that you need the money, that’s why you were running around town trying to get a job, is that right?” 

Jeff nodded slowly, confirmation. 

“Well,” Taker braced his forearm on the door above the kid’s head, leane down until they were face to face, eye to eye. Then he asked, “Why don’t you come work at the bar? Paul could use a hand around the place and you could use the money. It gets you what you want and it gets me what I want. What do you say?” 

“I…” Once again the kid appeared to be at a loss for words. The surprised showed in his eyes but he also looked thoughtful. Taker let him slip past him, watched with a turned head as he walked further into the room. He was thinking it over, hard. 

Taker was hoping for a yes. Really really fucking hoped the kid would accept his offer. He wanted to help the kid, who so obviously needed it. He also wanted to keep the kid close by, surrounded by those who would protect him if the need arose - Taker would make sure to tell Vis to spread the word around the club so everyone knew it. Call him greedy. He was. 

He watched, held his breath, as Jeff turned back to him. Seemed to come to a decision. 

“Do you need an answer immediately? Can I think about it some more?” He asked, tentatively. It wasn’t a no. 

“Course,” Taker nodded, reaching for the door handle. It was time to go before he lost himself. The kid hadn’t told him no but he also hadn’t told him yes. “You think about it and if you decide to take it. Be at the bar tomorrow evening by five.” He left with that, shutting the door behind himself. He doesn’t look back as he crosses the distance to his bike. Doesn’t look up as he starts it up and pulled onto the road. And he doesn’t look back as he heads in the direction of his home. If he had chanced a look back and the kid was looking at him with those emerald green eyes, he doesn't think he would’ve been able to leave at all. 

~

Jeff arrived at the bar an hour early. He’d thought long and hard about the proposition that Taker left with him last night. And he made his decision. Wouldn’t hurt to try, see if he liked it. He arrived early to familiarize himself with his new work place. Couldn’t be of any help if he didn’t have the lay out of the land so to speak. 

He left the motel and walked the few blocks to the bar. He had done so with the assumption that the bar would be open. If he was wrong, well he’d just have to wait. There was a car, old black cadillac, and two bikes in the parking lot. Jeff hoped, just a little bit, that one of those bikes belonged to Taker. He walked up to the door, trying the handle. It turned easily and he let himself in. 

He stopped just inside and stared. The interior of the bar was, nice, very very nice. Better than Jeff had expected. There were an array of lights, soft purple, red, and white, scattered throughout the bar, some on the wall, others hanging from the ceiling. They weren’t all that bright, just shining dimly yet with enough light to illuminate the place. Various booths and tables were set up. All looking like they were made from some type of dark colored wood. The bar itself was an impressive feat. It was situated on the back wall, nearly stretching the length of it. Above the bar, engraved into the back wall, was a symbol. It looked to be the letter T but the T was modified to look more like a spike than the actual letter. There were two smaller criss crossed spikes laid over the trunk of the T. It looked totally badass. 

“I wonder what that stands for?” Jeff mutters to himself with a smile. He had a pretty good guess. He continues looking around the room, taking note of the laughing devil head banners hanging from several places along the wall as well as the numerous motorcycle pictures sat about. Yep. This place just screamed biker bar. He starts to take a step further into the place when the door behind him suddenly swings open, startling him. He whips around just as a menacing voice speaks out. 

“Hey! What are you- oh,” The bouncer, Jeff realizes as if he could ever forget the guy’s hulking figure, cuts himself off when he realizes just who was standing in front of him. His eyes narrow, an intimidating look, “You’re a bit early kid. Place ain’t open ‘til five.” 

“I…. um… just wanted to… uh” Jeff didn’t know what to say, looking nervously at the bouncer. The guy was giving him a very suspicious look. Maybe he should’ve just waited to show up on time. Should he apologize? Maybe. He starts to do just that, almost apologizes, when a new voice speaks up. Deep and gravely and from behind him. 

“Careful Vis. Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if my brother catches you looking at him like that.” 

Jeff turns his head toward the bar and the bouncer, Vis, looks up. Jeff recognized the guy leaning against the bar, face still covered in that bandana but his hair is pushed away from his face. He was with Taker that night. He must be Kane. 

Vis confirmed his suspicions when he responded, light heartedly, “I wasn’t gonna hurt him Kane.” 

Jeff couldn’t help but raise a skeptical brow at that statement, looking back at the large man to find him grinning down at him. 

“Couldn’t help myself. Had to mess with ya kid.” He offered and a large hand smacks Jeff on the back, actually physically making Jeff take a step forward with the force of it. It didn’t hurt though. 

He watches as Vis slid past him and ventured further in, heading toward the back wall just to the right of the bar. That’s when Jeff noticed the two doors there, one was labeled Restroom and the other Employee’s Only. So that’s where Kane came from. 

He shuffles further into the place. Walking up to Kane and offering a greeting with a smile, “Hi.” 

Kane stares at him for a few minutes, in a way that Jeff knows he’s being sized up, before Kane is giving him a quick nod and standing to his full height - he’s just a few inches shorter than Taker, Jeff realizes - stepping past Jeff and heading for the door. He doesn’t say anything and Jeff blinks after him, slightly worried that he did something wrong. 

“I wouldn’t worry about Kane my boy,” Jeff practically jumps at the shrill voice that spoke up from directly behind him. Standing behind him was a short older man, dressed completely in black. He smiled, “He’s shy around new people but don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll warm up to you quickly. Ah but where are my manners. Welcome! I am Paul Bearer. And you are?” 

“Uh Jeff. Jeff Hardy.” 

Paul’s face lit up, exclaiming “Ah yes! The Undertaker said you would come. I’ve been expecting you! Come!” He quickly gestured for Jeff to follow him and Jeff had no choice but to fall into step behind the man as he shuffled towards the Employees Only door. 

He wasn’t going to lie, Paul was a little creepy but at least he wasn’t intimidating. He was half listening as Paul rambled on, “Well get you all situated. You’ll love it here! Simply love it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, writing Taker's POV is so much easier than writing Jeff's for some reason. I dunno. XD (I am so sorry if I can't do Jeff's POV justice. I try.)


End file.
